Imprezzive lives to lead
Bill O’Reilly writes a book faster than Matthew, Mark, Luke and John knocked off theirs. And they only talked about God. O’Reilly knows he’s God.
His St. Martin’s newie “Confronting the Presidents” — subtitle “No Spin Assessments From Washington to Biden” — comes out Sept. 10. He rats on 46 presidencies from Martha Washington’s hubby crossing the Delaware to Mrs. Biden’s dummy owning all of Delaware.
It’s all: how they ate, slept, worked, peed. Who they hated, mated, who they dated, how they rated.
1798. John Adams wished to be a farmer. The missus Abigail, fearing his washed drawers might be stolen, hung them on a rope outside the East Room.
1801. Thomas Jefferson. In low whispery voice, wearing slippers and a robe to work: “The job is above my talents.”
1814. James Madison. Plump wife Dolley used rouge, snuff, blew her nose on a bandana and, minus Häagen-Dazs, served oyster, asparagus, chestnut and Parmesan ice cream at parties.
Executive sot
1818. James Monroe. A wino. 1,200 bottles of burgundy and $30,000 of French Champagne came to the White House earmarked as “Furniture Fund.”
1837. Martin Van Buren. Said Davy Crockett: “Is he man or woman? He’s laced up in corsets such as women wear — and tighter than the rest of them.”
1846. James Polk. Constant indigestion and steadily “passed wind.” His idea to “claim the Rio Grande and double the USA land” explains his indigestion.
1850. Zachary Taylor. Didn’t last long. About his passing Brigham Young, the Mormon, said: “He’s dead and gone to hell. And I am glad of it.” Even before Obama pulled Mortimer Snerd Biden’s strings, the White House was no cuddly place.
1853. Franklin Pierce. Swore on a law book not the Bible saying he himself is unworthy of taking a biblical oath.
Tippler times
1857. James Buchanan. Distrusting the local water, jovial Jimmy drank whiskey, wine and port big time. He’d knock off 9 ¹/₂ gallons of whiskey per annum.
1881. James Garfield. Married but busy. In their first five years, together less than 20 weeks. Meanwhile Jimmy was under other things.
1902. Theodore Roosevelt. Pony named Algonquin who rode the White House elevator, plus a bear, lizard, guinea pigs, real pig named Maude, blue macaw, a badger, rooster, hen named Baron, a hyena, a barn owl, rabbit named Peter.
1933. FDR. Eleanor labeled Franklin’s lousy lovemaking “an ordeal to be endured.” They led separate lives. He had Lucy Mercer, Eleanor did journalist Lorena Hickok.
1963. JFK. And once upon a dime lived Father Ambassador Joe Kennedy, who funded his son’s election: “With the money I spent I could’ve elected my chauffeur.”
Read O’Reilly’s book, bone up on LBJ, Ford, Nixon, Bush, a partridge in a pear tree and hidin’, slidin’ Hunter’s father the cashier of Delaware.
Pride of H’wood
Oy. Strangle me. Another award show thing. To celebrate LGBT movies and TV, some Critics Choice Association in LA, coming tomorrow.
Charlize Theron, Ricky Martin, Sheryl Lee Ralph, Nathan Lane and George Takei do the honors. The thing’s a first. And — hear this — it streams on something called HereTV.
I don’t care if this newest award show winner gets some beaded Kleenex box as its trophy. I just think — in fairness — any available award should go to Mrs. Biden — if not for her wise marital picks — then for her wardrobe picks.
Our wonderful country. Know that more politicians, lawyers, elected officials, jurists and devoted ex-compatriots universally strive to do something for former colleagues. Like all work to make them “pen pals.”
Only in America, kids, only in America.